Mr. John

"Oh, and by the way, that pink stuff? Yeah, it gives you a weird rash, so make sure you never get it on your skin."

My first thoughts as I heard this as my coworker opened up turkeys for slicing came in the form of two questions.

First, why is my food soaking in a substance that causes weird, itchy, red bumps to appear when it comes in contact with human skin?

And secondly, what is this pink stuff, and why does it give me a rash?

Victimized

I've picked up a habit that some people would call a bad one, but one that I enjoy quite a lot. It's just running, so it can't be that bad, right? The only problem is, I run alone. Still not that bad, right?

But, it's in the middle of the night.

Some people look at me like I'm crazy when I mention that, but nighttime running is the best. Especially in the hot summer. I actually enjoy having my sweat cool me down, not just make me feel sticky. And I live in a relatively safe community, running with a key in my hand like a knife, so I'm totally safe, right? My chances of becoming a victim where I live are .36 percent. (Yes, I did just look that up.) Not a big deal.

If you're thinking I'm going to continue on to explain how I happened to be a part of that .36 percent, you're wrong.

No, I'm going to tell you how I caused someone else to be part of that .36 percent.

Before embarking on a run on this particular night, I realized that I really needed to pee. But I've always heard that needing to pee simply makes you run faster, so I decided that I could hold it. (Don't ever believe anyone who tells you that. Ever.)

As I started running, each step caused my intestines to rub against my bladder, causing my need to relieve myself to intensify. But I just kept going. (Bad idea #2, just in case you couldn't figure that out for yourself.)

I got about halfway done, and the need was unbearable. All I could think about was going to the bathroom. Soon I began repeating my mantra of "Don'tpeedon'tpeedon'tpeedon'tpeedon'tpee" over and over again. When I had two blocks left before I would be to my car, I knew I wasn't going to make it. The pain was so intense that I was running stranger than normal, and tears were threatening to fall, attempting to get some liquid out somehow.

So with those two blocks to go, I bailed. I ran straight past a light post, into a field just off the sidewalk, dropped my shorts, and let it free. Unfortunately, it was right around this moment when I heard footsteps.

Coming from the sidewalk.

Which was probably ten feet away from me.

While the only thing offering me any sort of covering was a tree whose trunk was about as big around as my arm.

And I just kept peeing.

So, unfortunate man who chose that inopportune moment to go running, I apologize profusely. I truly didn't go running with the intent to make you a victim. Please accept my apology knowing that it will never happen again.

(Especially if you do what's good for you and stop running in the middle of the night.)

Babies.

First off, I think I should add a disclaimer for this post. I love children. Really I do. Not so much when they're crying, but I can save that for another post. My problem lies with babies freshly born. Babies who are just out of the womb are not gorgeous. They are not beautiful. They aren't handsome.

They're wrinkly. And gross. And smashed. And hideous. Their color is all wrong, their eyes are squinty, and they only know how to cry.

If I ever have children, I hope that right after the grueling experience, not a single person tells me "Oh she's so gorgeous!" or, "He has your nose!" Because really, how can you tell?! If my nose is that squashed, man, I shoulda just not had a kid and gotten a nose job instead. But now that I've had this child, I'm stuck with a squashed nose AND a kid whose nose is going to end up with the same fate as mine.

So please. After that 7 lb creature is squeezed out of a tiny tube, don't tell me they're beautiful. Because they're not. And I'd rather you be spared the damnation for lying.

Confession #1

I hate introductions.

Strangely enough, I love meeting people. I hate asking someone to explain themselves in a sentence or two, because it's quite obvious that we're much more meaningful than a sentence. And, usually, people are a bit . . . skewed in their perception of themselves, so their two sentences are crap anyway. Mostly, I just like getting to know a person bit by bit, so I can form my own perceptions of them.

So I guess this means that for now, you're just going to have to know what little I've told you about myself, without knowing what I'm good at or what I'd name my autobiography. Consider this the toe of my existence. Maybe only the pinky one. The rest you can become experts on later.

Oh, but I guess I should say this much: I'm London. And this is my blog.